It's Like A Musical Mosaic
by Twist
Summary: 10 shorts, inspired by 10 songs. Now with Chapter 5! Featuring: Vetinari, Vimes, Drumknott, the ever-mysterious Grace Speaker, Ponder, Adora, HEX and more! Aww yeah. Still rated T but that's really pushing it. Light M, really, for sexy-time/swears.
1. True random

Sup, I stole this meme from Midnight Mustang. And I cheated. A lot. But all for your enjoyment, of course. Don't be so goddamn ungrateful.

BEHOLD, MY TERRIBLE TASTE IN MUSIC.

**Rules:**  
**1.** Pick a fandom you like  
**2. **Turn on your music player and put it on random/shuffle.  
**3. **Write a drabble related to each song that plays. You only have the time frame of the song to finish the drabble; you start when the song starts, and stop when it ends.  
**4.** No lingering afterwards.  
**5.** Do 10 of these and post them.

"_Shush girl, shut your lips, do the Helen Keller and talk with your hips."_

-- 3Oh!3

--

**Leave Your Hat On – Joe Cocker**

Moist knew two things about himself. One: he knew that inside, he was a nice guy, but his urges to steal, trick and con got in the way of it and Two: he was blessedly forgettable. He was average height, with average brown hair, average build and an average face. And he liked it that way, because it didn't get in the way of the first thing he knew about himself.

And then along came Vetinari, with his ridiculous spy network and even more ridiculous propositions. And the hats, those were the most ridiculous of all. When it came down to it, Moist blamed the hats more than the gold suit, the flash and pizzazz. It was the hats that made people remember him, recognize him on the street, pick him out of a crowd.

It was a hat that kept Adora from shooting him in the first place though. So they had to count for something, he reflected as he looked down on the curves of her body on the duvet. As a last measure, he reached up to pull the winged cap off his head. Adora smirked. "Just leave the hat on."

**Goo Goo Dolls – Black Balloon**

Angua watched the drizzle fall on the city from her post behind the shed. Commander Vimes was in Hot Pursuit half a street away, and she was waiting to make the collar when the suspect ran by. Off in the distance, the noise of the chase was barely audible over the sounds of the city.

_Not like the woods, where the sounds would be the rain and the leaves and the trees and the life_.

_Not like spring on the plains, where the grasses swayed with the weather and the animals were almost silent next to the pounding rain._

_Not like the Pack, who moved without a sound and killed before the prey knew it_.

The chase howled by and Angua lunged. The suspect, caught off guard, fell to the ground, Angua tumbling to the gutter next to him. _Not like the forest_ . . .

And as Commander Vimes swore and cuffed the man groaning on the cobblestones, Carrot reached down and pulled Angua back into the city.

**Come Together – Joe Cocker (it's a remake, don't judge me)**

Vetinari liked the city at three in the morning more than any other time of day. Which was why, at 3 am, he was sitting on the roof of a warehouse watching. Not anybody or anything, just watching.

People milled around, and he knew something about all of them, even if he didn't recognize them. The worked for the city, they paid for the city, the pulled all directions for the city, and that was the only thing that kept the city from sliding out from under them. He knew where every one of them lived, played, worked and bought. But at 3 am, he didn't care that much. All he cared about was that they were pulling, and they were turning the wheels that ran the city, powered the city, drove the city. They were working towards a common goal, even if they didn't know it.

And as Ankh-Morpork ground toward another sunrise, he laid back on the roof and smiled.

**Ievan Polka (Ieva's Polka) – Loituma**

Gnomes ran under the feet of the dwarves, who ducked around the legs of the humans, who curved their trajectories around the bulk of the trolls, who gently moved around the stalls, heaped with goods, which squatted in place, held to the edges of the streets by the pull of the sidewalks, which clung to the bottom of the buildings like the rings of a gaseous planet.

Sator Square was not all that unlike any major solar system, to anyone willing to spend the time comparing the two.

**Stronger – Kanye West**

Sybil had once said that whatever does not kill you, makes you stronger. Vimes would beg to differ, though quietly. Years in the Night Watch, watching the sun go down from Psuedopolis Yard, and watching it come back up from a gutter somewhere, had almost killed him, and certainly hadn't left him stronger, he reflected. It _had_ left him an older man, wiser, more cynical, with a liver that had filtered nearly everything that came out of a bottle. It didn't ever occur to him that strength means so much more than brute power.

Sybil watched the man who was a loving husband, caring father, and bearer of an entire city's burdens, and reflected that to be what Sam Vimes was, one must be nearly the strongest man in the world.

**Wonderwall – Oasis**

Vetinari knew that had Vimes and Sybil never met, the city would be entirely different. Of course, it went without saying that if any of X, Y or Z had never happened, the city would be entirely different, but this was different.

He knew Vimes's buttons, had known them for years, but had used them with care, because with a man like Vimes, eventually those buttons would lose their efficacy. Push them one too many times, and suddenly the spring broke, and the man whose rage had constantly powered his vengeance would drink himself into a stupor he would never wake up from.

And then Sybil had come along, on the unlikely suggestion of Fred Colon, and kept the machine oiled so that, fueled with enough general anger, it would spin forever.

**Save Me – Sister Hazel**

Rincewind had never enjoyed running, even when he'd been a child and one of the few joys of life was a good, honest run across the semi-manicured lawns of Hide Park. But now, after years of a marathon career as Wizzard, explorer and tour guide, with a safe, cush job as a tenured professor at the Unseen University, he felt something was missing.

The day it hit him that he missed running, he didn't panic. Instead, he calmly proceeded to the kitchens, had a hashbrown, and thought it over. He could take a jog around the University grounds, or even around the entire city, but that lacked an element of urgency. He laid the hashbrown aside.

It would be the talk of the wizards' first dinner, later that evening, as to why Rincewind walked outside the University, threw a potato at a man in a Dimwell jersey ad proceeded to yell a string of profanities. Didn't the bloody idiot realize they were going to chase him as long as he was willing to run?

**Here Comes Horses – Tabitha's Secret**

Drumknott wasn't the sort to despair. When one came from a past like Rufus had, there wasn't much in his current situation to despair _about_. He had a nice flat in one of the better parts of the city – not that he ever stayed there much – a secure – if demanding and somewhat insane – job, and a girlfriend who shared his passion for manila envelopes and ring binders. She'd even dressed as a filing cabinet for his birthday last year.

But he was despairing now, as he watched the cloud of dust and horseflesh round the corner of the Hippo. He'd put money on longshot 5, _a lot_ of money, and not only was 5 at the back of the pack, her jockey was _rating_ her. He clenched his teeth and clung to the bar of the stands with a white-knuckled grip. Lord Vetinari would have something to say about this tomorrow, certainly. He'd _know_, the bastard always did.

And then she came back with his drink and put her hand on his. As the ice clinked the sides of her glass, she smiled. And the jock threw 5 the reins, and the little filly buried the rest of the field in a spray of dust and shame. "That was exciting, wasn't it?" she asked, and handed him his drink. He could only smile and agree.

**Run Around – Blue Traveler**

He wasn't sure why he and Grace got along. They had almost nothing in common, although he imagined that was pretty much the case across the board as far as he was concerned. Very few people have a crippling obsession with a city that will never show its gratitude beyond spitting in your eye at the end of the day. But they did like dogs, and the crossword, and making fun of columns in the _Times_ together. And bit by bit, she was learning to love the city, too, although she'd never look at it through the same lens he did.

"But they _don't_ like you," she's pointed out one day, after a fairly rabid column caused him to reflect on how batty the writer must be. "I mean, _I_ like you obviously, but the populace? Please don't make me tell you you're out of touch."

"Oh, I know they don't like me," he said, cutting the column out. He'd display it somewhere, one day, for sure. "But no one really hates me. Except for Downey."

"And me, when you start rambling about the city." She gave him a look. "Oh, don't pretend you never do."

He frowned. Yes, there was no common ground.

At least the sex was fantastic.

**AllStar – Smash Mouth**

Vimes had a lot of memories, most of them fogged over by a web of nostalgic cobwebs these days. But there were a few that were branded into his brain so thoroughly that he could still remember every single detail of the memory, right down to the way the clouds looked.

The day he'd caught a pet shop owner and the ruler of the city making out like a pair of drunk teenagers in the back room of a shop at two in the morning was one of those. He'd not managed to look Vetinari in the eye since then, and he'd _certainly_ hadn't ventured into that alley behind Pellicool Pets.

But here was that Speaker woman, smirking at him because she _knew_ what had him squirming in his boots in the middle of Sator Square. She patted him on the shoulder, and he fought not to cringe. "Tyrants need love too," she said quietly, and no one else heard.

Later that evening, Sybil would be confused as to why Sam was so (briefly) resistant to kissing her, and he wouldn't tell her.

It wasn't so much that he felt as though he'd walked in on his parents that was unnerving him, he'd decided.

It was his urge to slap Vetinari on the back and fist bump the man that freaked him out the most.

--

The alternative title to the last one could, theoretically, be 'Bros Before Hoes'.

OLOLOLOLOLOLOL I don't write serious things anymore, trufax. Review anyway, and maybe I will continue to churn out frivolous drivel because _you know you like it_.


	2. Lady GaGa and Mika, mostly

SONG MEME 2 LOL

Note: So I was going to write this musical piece that featured Vetinari and Grace Speaker (OTP 4REALZ) singing a duet but that was hard so I did this instead.

Yeah, I know you're mad grateful, you're welcome, you're welcome.

Disclaimer: Yeah, I'm totally Terry Pratchett. No wait, wait. No beard, no hat, female, 22 years old, rarely wears black . . . MY GOD I'M NOT HIM AT ALL. These aren't my characters, please give me some time to weep and come to grips with that fact.

Song note: I used the 'Recently Played' playlist for this one, and just shuffled them randomly. I feel like this gives you a more accurate feel of the type of music I listen to. I fully expect wholehearted disappointment since it pretty much consists solely of Mika and Lady GaGa. Suck it, I listen to what I want.

"_(571): next time the cops show up in riot gear we should probably leave_

_(703): and miss being on the news....no way"_

- Texts From Last Night

--

**Mika – Grace Kelly**

Grace couldn't imagine, really, that this was happening. She'd managed to make it to forty-five without ever having a serious, long-term relationship – sure, she'd dated around and been in relationships that might have _become_ serious – and not only did she manage to wind up in one, she'd wound up in one with the _Patrician of Ankh-Morpork_.

And they were fighting.

Really.

She crossed her arms as she spun her back to him. "Listen, if you're looking for some floozy to come around to anytime you're not busy with _other_, foreign, important floozies, then you'd best find yourself another woman, Havelock."

"Grace, that was almost forty years ago!" She could tell he was frustrated now, probably running his hands through his hair like he did when he couldn't figure out what to do at that very moment. "She's not anything more, I mean, she thinks she is, sure, but she's just, you know, what she is."

"So would you like me to be a b-total vampire that wears ugly sweaters? Would that be _better_ for you?"

"You're going too far," he warned. She sniffed and stuck her nose skyward. He sighed. "Grace, I don't . . . I like you for everything you are. You don't have to change." There was a long pause.

"Leave."

"Grace . . ."

"_Get out_."

He made a frustrated noise, and she heard the telltale sound as he dropped his hands to his sides. "Grace, listen. I. Uh. I love you."

It hit her like a punch to the gut. She blinked. "What?"

"I'll be going. See you around."

"Havelock Vetinari, _what did you say_?" She spun around. He was watching her with a slight, lopsided smile. She felt a smile swim onto her face as well. "Get over here, you." He walked over and grabbed her around the waist.

"I shouldn't leave then?"

She kissed him. That was all the answer that needed given.

**Mika – Lollipop**

"What's it like not being married?" Young Sam asked one day. Drumknott blinked. "All the people my mum and dad socialize with are. Except you and Nobby and Captain Carrot and Sergeant Angua and Lucky."

"So why don't you ask them?" Drumknott asked cautiously.

"Nobby says it's not appropriate for children, like, and that's not the kind of thing you ask Lucky and Carrot and Angua about."

Drumknott wasn't sure if he felt honored or insulted. "It's . . . different," he concluded.

"Duh."

"I've never much worried about it," he concluded. "You worry about it too much and it just gets you down. You start feeling like you're alone."

"Are you?"

"Only if you want to be."

Sam nodded and swung his legs off the side of the desk. "I want ice cream," he concluded, appearing to have given the matter all the thought he cared to. "D'you like chocolate?"

Drumknott smiled and tucked the file away. "I prefer tea," he said quietly. "But let's go to the kitchen and see what we can do about some ice cream, shall we?"

**Train – Hey, Soul Sister**

Moist loved watching Adora, and had done from the first day he'd met her. For a woman who had never been seen wearing anything in a primary color, and certainly never anything with even a hint of an interesting cut, she was the most memorable person he'd ever met – from the way her cigarettes smelled to the way she walked around the bank and the post office and the Golem Trust, slipping in and out of the crowd, pausing, checking, just standing – he just couldn't get her out of his head.

"What're you watching?" she asked, drifting over to stand beside him on the balcony, where he'd been overlooking the workings of the Post Office. And he looked over and there she was, every graceful, flowing inch and curve of her. She was still as beautiful as ever, even with the changes, and he had been surprised to find in himself that he was able to appreciate this different, new beauty; to take it in and revel in it and see it for what it was in all its complexity and terror and strength and wonder. He wrapped an arm around her hips. "You," he said, and kissed her. His hand slid up to her stomach and settled there, resting lightly on the ridge of the new curve, ever-growing these past months. "Both of you."

She leaned into him, a ghost of a smile on her face. And he committed the scene to memory as he stood there and smiled, because he knew it would be one he'd want to relive one day, just in case he'd missed something the first time around.

**Lady GaGa – Telephone**

Susan rarely dreamed, mostly because even in sleep, she was in control enough to avoid the things, and her unusual heritage meant dreams, for her, were more than just creations of her subconscious. But for the past few months, a familiar face had leered at her, up out of the darkness, dark eye glinting in impossible light, and she would shut the dream off, tuck it away, and sleep until the morning.

"So rude of you to ignore me like that," he said finally one night, while a winter's snow settled on their hair. There was no feel to any of it – there couldn't be, because he was dead and she was dreaming – but he was speaking to her anyway, like he'd never gone. "Months I've been trying."

"Well you can keep at it, because I don't want to talk to you," she said haughtily, forcing the thought of him from her mind.

"But don't remember all the fun we had? I think that was the best Hogswatch I've ever had, right up until you killed me." He leaned in, and there was no breath on her face, no warmth. Images from the Hogswatch past swarmed and swam around them. Murder and fear and the end of the world and blood and teeth and Death. She shut her eyes.

"I am tired of these dreams," she ground out through grit teeth. "Leave."

"So much fun," he mused, though the world around them was ebbing away at the edges.

"_I don't want to talk anymore_," she snarled. And the dream snapped off. In her mind, Susan stood and watched and waited, and after long enough, she drifted back to sleep, dreamless.

**Lady GaGa – Speechless**

Glenda wasn't the type to cry, ever. Crying was for silly girls and children. But the way he'd looked at her, as they'd walked out of the valley, when she'd laid a hand on his shoulder and tried to tell him they'd come around, they'd see one day, and the way he'd snarled that no human knew, and apparently no orc did either, had so startled her and frightened her, that here she was. She leaned her elbows on her knees and blew her nose loudly into the handkerchief. She knew it must be hard for him – caught between two worlds – but she'd thought that even though she didn't understand, she might offer him valuable enough companionship and empathy in his isolation that _he'd_ understand.

She became aware of his thin body next to her, sitting next to her. She just cried, and cried, and finally a skinny arm slipped around her shoulders and a chin rested on her head. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "I spoke in anger." She slid her arms around his chest and cried into the rough shirt. "I don't know what else to say."

Through the sobs, she managed to smile, and put a finger to his lips. He watched her for a minute, and then shrugged, and pulled her back in, quietly holding her. "I don't either," she sniffed. And she settled into the curve of him and he held her, until they both fell asleep.

**Mika – Big Girl (You Are Beautiful)**

Vimes saw the way she looked at the other women at the parties and the balls. She was stable, a rock in the ever-heaving sea of his life, but he knew it bothered her, at least a little. The way she dressed, the way she ate, the way she held herself, all spoke to a slight fear, a reservation. But she'd never asked the question before today.

"Sam, dear?" She turned, just a touch of anxiety in her face. "Does this dress make me look fat?"

Vimes paused. "Sybil," he finally settled on, setting his face in an expression of both reproach and surprise, "what kind of question is that?"

"I don't know, the way it's cut around the waist . . ."

"Sybil dear," he said calmly, moving up to stand beside her in their full-length mirror, "you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen."

"That doesn't answer the question."

"Because the answer doesn't matter," he said, bewildered. "It doesn't matter what some dress makes you look like, I'm going to love everything about how you look." He gestured to their reflections. "Sybil, everything about you is beautiful."

"Answer the question, Sam," she said, turning to him, arms crossed.

Vimes swallowed. Evasive maneuvers had failed. "That dress was never my favorite," he finally muttered, completely honestly. Sybil beamed and pulled him into her warm embrace. Vimes blinked. "Really?"

"I can always count on you to be honest." She stood back and fussed with the bodice a little before waving her hands at the reflection. "I always hated this one too. I'll drop it off at the shonky shop tomorrow, no time to change tonight." She took his hand gently before turning her attention to straightening his tie. The she smiled warmly at him once before turning to the door. "Who cares what else anyone thinks? You're the only one that counts."

**Lady GaGa – So Happy I Could Die**

Gray robes, gray mist, gray feelings and a gray world. But now this . . . _This_. The way smells drifted lazily through the air and into her nose, the way her clothes _felt_ against her skin, the way colors sizzled their paths across the back of her eyes and seared a trail into her brain, and _taste_. The chemicals, the spark, the sizzle of the reaction and the punch of the flavor.

Dark brown, hard yet smooth and warm to the touch, a sound that went _chock_ when you broke it open, and the _taste_. It swam through the nose and across her tongue and it tasted like the color red, felt like silk as she swallowed.

Myra LeJean floated into the sea of chocolate, the ocean of sensation, and breathed and laughed until it swallowed her in everything that it was.

**Lady GaGa – Teeth**

The dark-haired Morporkian had done something no one had dared do in over five hundred years. He met her, he'd shaken her hand, they'd exchanged pleasantries and then, over dinner, while his companions spoke of politics and the sights they'd seen as he sat quietly by, observing, he turned to her, smirked, and then flashed his teeth.

It was a gesture that couldn't be ignored.

That had been five hours ago. Now she was naked, hovering on her hands and knees over him, and he was laying there in bed, dressed, like he'd not expected it, except for the cheeky expression, the way he lay there with his hands cradling his head.

"Show me your teeth," she challenged him.

"Show me control," he countered, as she leaned down toward his neck. "Show me your will." She watched him, and he cocked an eyebrow. "Bet you can't." And she got up and dressed.

That had been four hours ago. He'd slept, or pretended to, and she had sat in the chair at the desk and read the rather boring book he'd left there, and not his journal, which he'd left underneath it, until he yawned and stretched. "Very good," he'd noted, upon sitting up. She turned to him.

"Now show me your teeth again, boy, if you dare."

He ran his tongue over their ridges and points, eyebrow raised. Her own fangs lengthened. "Now show me control again, if you think you've got what it takes," he said.

In the end, she did.

**Lady GaGa – Alejandro**

Sergeant Angua arched her neck and back and closed her eyes and thought about sex. It was hard not to, given the current situation. Carrot inhaled sharply as she twisted her hips ever so slightly to the left. Her mouth gaped open, lips slightly curled into a smile, but so slightly as to be undetectable. "Angua," he breathed, leaning down with the next rock of his hips, his strong arms on either side of her, his breath warm on her face and neck.

"Shh," she breathed, running her hand across his short-cropped hair. "Don't say my name."

He grunted with the motion and nipped her ear. "You prefer Delphine?"

"Shhh," she shushed him again and ran her hands down his back. "Don't say my name."

She'd never liked it when people used her name during. It felt too much like love.

**Lady GaGa – Bad Romance**

The city loved her citizens, and loved everything they gave. She loved the stink and the money and the blood and the love and the hate and the towering buildings and sweeping roads and architecture, hideous and elegant alike, because in the end, she knew it was all for her. The newspaper's flashbulbs, the brawls, the babies born and the marriage vows said, they were all for her some way or another. And she drank it all in every day, and held it close because all of it, every step and dollar, was a tribute to her, a prayer, a temple in her honor constructed on faith and belief and hope.

There were those that she held closer, and she clung to them, and they lived and died in her embrace. They may have loved her, they may have hated her, but in the end they devoted themselves to her; they were her priests and her paupers, her lords and liars. And this one – this one was the best of all.

Ankh-Morpork held on to Havelock Vetinari – her favorite son, her man of the hour – because he loved her and hated her at the same time, for everything that she was, and devoted himself to her anyway.

--

OH HAY SERIES OF HIDEOUSLY MEDIOCRE RAMBLES.

Hey Discworld, do you like turtles? That's cool. You know what else you might like? Reviews. I know I do! Please leave some at the door on your way out, it's the only thing that keeps me from drunk texting my friends at 2 am about my gin-inspired culinary creations, and you don't want to be responsible for that, do you? Yeah, totally didn't think so.


	3. This really should be rated M

SONG MEME PART 3

AN: I'm laid up with a bum ankle – writing tiem nao! You could say these songs were more _inspired_ by the song meme. Obvi, some of them were added to after the song ended. But enjoy anyway.

Disclaimer: Aw hell naw son.

"_(630):_

_everybody makes mistakes_

_(1-630):_

_i didn't know they allowed you to text in ambulances"_

-()-_  
_

**30 Seconds to Mars – Kings and Queens**

_The Kite_, after much discussion amongst the Gods, had been cast back to the Disc. They saw no practical use for it, and without a sufficient amount of dragons (or repairs, for that matter), it was useless to anyone else. Besides, the da Quirm man had been bound to a promise never to take flight to the highest mountain again, and without him, how could the machine possibly fly?

But one man had made trips to and from the wreckage, for years. It wasn't unusual – it was right outside the limits of the city Ankh-Morpork, and travelers and sightseers weren't out of the ordinary. After all, something that had once been to space _was_ something of a novelty. But that one man would come and go, often at night. Sometimes he would have something with him, sometimes he wouldn't. Often he'd stay for hours, just working. This went on for years, long after da Quirm's death, and the gods paid no attention, because what was to worry about one lone lunatic?

But after 10 years, Havelock Vetinari – or whatever he was, really – felt the satisfaction of a job well done when he eased a hand across the sleek gunmetal throttle and felt and heard the roar of engines alien to the Disc but _oh_, so achingly familiar to him. In the end, everyone concluded they _knew_ he wasn't human, and did you suppose he was hiding tentacles or something? It would put a mark on his legacy, certainly, but 300 miles away, in the velvet black of space, with a giant turtle paddling patiently in the opposite direction behind him and engines thrumming peacefully, P514 really could not be bothered to give a damn.

**My Chemical Romance – Famous Last Words**

The way she breathed was so peaceful and so rhythmic, but Nutt could hardly help but think how frail the motion was. The delicate ribs would hardly offer much resistance should he decide to crush the soft, porous lungs beneath, or tear from her beautiful chest the rich red heart, slick and strong and firm.

But he knew he couldn't – would never be able to. Because, he reflected, those first thoughts, of frailty and weakness, were an orc's thoughts, but, he realized, the thoughts that controlled him, that governed him, were a man's thoughts.

He considered love. It had never made sense to him, not the way that, say, mathematics or candle-dribbling made sense. Those things were exact, formulary. But love. Here he was, a rigidly logical creature, he yet he felt . . . giddy. And why? Because some human girl – no, woman – was laying there, sleeping, perfectly content and comfortable in his presence, and he could hardly stand the joy of that thought.

He laid down next to her, hands intertwined under his head, and grinned stupidly, one bottom incisor peeking out over his top lip, letting the sound of her breathing carry him to sleep.

**Good Charlotte – Anthem**

The anarchic youth of Ankh-Morpork were hardly a new demographic. Under Vetinari, of course, they had become much less of a threat and more of an impotent, amusing group of whiners, but Lord Downey really, _really_ did get fed up with them some times.

"And about your dress," he said, looking over his reading glasses at the boy standing up before his desk, "You are aware that, er, _chains_ are not part of the Assassin's Guild uniform?"

"They're cool," the youth muttered, tossing his head and flicking his dyed-black bangs out of his eyes, which he had, somewhat inartfully, lined with black eyeliner.

Lord Downey sighed. "Robert, you look like a fool. You've chained your wallet to your pants, boy!"

"So someone doesn't steal it, sir."

Lord Downey sighed and put his face in his hands. "Robert, you are an Assassin. Assassins – and I can't believe I have to say this – don't wear eyeliner, don't paint their nails black and _don't chain their personal items to their clothing to prevent theft_."

"Fuck the establishment," Robert snarled, before turning and storming from the office.

Lord Downey watched him go. They'd get him and his punishment would be oh, so rich – Havelock's annual customary stint at substitute teaching was coming up after all – but he couldn't help be remind himself that the gods watch over the young and the stupid, if only to keep their elders from throttling them.

**Incubus – Wish You Were Here**

Sam Vimes sat under the blue-black night sky of Klatchian desert and looked at the stars. He wasn't very familiar with stars, being a creature of the city and more familiar with streetlights, but he couldn't help but take them in, and grudgingly admit that they were _nice_. And, less grudgingly, reflected that Sybil would love to be here, out in the sand, looking up at the stars. He smiled, thinking of her, and laid back onto his hastily-acquired bedroll (a foul-smelling, worm-chewed old carpet that Vetinari had _kindly_ bequeathed unto him, the bastard).

One day, they'd take a trip together, to somewhere. Somewhere, he imagined, a little less hot, but nevertheless rural, and pretty and quiet.

Yes, most importantly, their next trip together would be _quiet_.

**Sugarcult – Memory**

Young Sam's first girlfriend was a bit of an effort, for both Sam and all of those adults on whom he leaned for advice. For his father, it came with the very important, very frightening worry of becoming, very quickly, a grandfather. For his mother, it came with worries about his behavior, his chivalry, and whether or not he was a true gentleman. For his adoptive uncle, it came with questions, most importantly, 'how can he not see she's horrible?'

And, eventually, it ended, because, in the end, everyone's fears were assuaged. He never did father a child with her, praise the gods, he was a perfect gentleman from the beginning to her tumultuous, hysterical, over-emotional departure, and in the end, he did see she was horrible.

"But I have all these memories," he lamented to his almost-uncle, one night over a beer. "_Good_ memories."

"And I'm sure she does too," Vetinari replied, thumbing through some paperwork. "And in time, hopefully, those are the only ones that stand out."

"Sometimes I wish we could go back to them," Sam muttered.

"In my experience," Vetinari said, "there are some things in life that are better remembered than lived."

**Fall Out Boy – Of All the Gin Joints In the World**

Susan sometimes found herself – not _pining_, she wasn't the sort to pine (1) – but missing, she supposed was the word for it, Lobsang. He would be gone for so long, and while probably no one else better understood the demands of being an anthropomorphic personification, she couldn't help but consider occasionally feel that the relationship was unfair.

There were days when she would worry that he would forget she was human, and would be gone for 10, or 12, or 20 years, and when he came back, finally, she would be old and bitter or perhaps even have moved on. But then, she would remind herself, that was silly, because he was Time, and he could come back _yesterday_ if he wanted to. But still.

And yet, when he did stop by, sometimes only for a few minutes, sometimes for hours, once or twice for days, she would soar. And when he would go, she would lay in bed and think of him until she fell asleep, dreaming of Time and nougat. Once she asked if he could stay – if there was any possible way to make it happen – and he just hugged her and kissed her on her head and told her that it was time to go, he only had all the Time in the world – which was a horrible joke that for some reason he always felt compelled to make – and they kissed and he was gone.

The soaring feeling only lasted a few days, before the missing settled in, she reflected, watching her students finger-paint one sunny afternoon. And she worried a little, because rarely were the gaps in his visits such that she even noticed it.

And then there was the ever-welcome crashing from the supply closet (how he had still not managed to master appearing in there seamlessly was a mystery, if an amusing one). Heather, a blonde be-pigtailed girl in the front row, looked up hopefully. "Does this mean we're going on a field trip?" The rest of the students' eyes gleamed with a similar hunger. Miss Susan just smiled her thing little smile and said, "Yes, I do think so."

(1) And especially not for fjords.

**The Ataris – Boys of Summer**

Havelock Vetinari had had a crush once in his life. He'd been eight, she'd been fifteen. It had been in Genua, two years after his father's death, during the high months of summer. He was, as expected, a shy child, while she'd been the pretty, popular blonde, just coming into herself as a woman. She and her friends would lay out on the sandy shore of the Circle Sea and he would go every day, and sit in the sun, acting as if he were interested in the games the other boys his age were making up, but in actuality planning his eventual approach.

One day, when he finally did get up the courage, or, more accurately, bump into her in an uncharacteristic moment of inattention, he looked up into the face of a Goddess, and, contrary to all his planning and meticulously thought-out pick-up lines ("Hi, I'm Havelock, do you like turtles? I do.") blurted "I like you. You're uh, pretty."

And she laughed and her boyfriend – and that just _had_ to be one of the days he was with her, didn't it? – laughed too and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. "Aw, thank you sweetie," she'd said, and her boyfriend had offered forth his fist for a bump, which Havelock grudgingly gave, and said "Good taste, little man," and they'd walked off.

And Havelock, after having his eight year-old heart demolished, watched them go, scowling, because he was a Vetinari, and Vetinaris don't cry. Instead, he watched her walk down the beach, boyfriend's hand cupping her rear, and muttered, "Fucker."

**Scott Bomar – The Chain**

Nutt and Glenda had hear about the orc and the anvil, out in some little village in Bumfuck, Uberwald. Both had decided the situation was absolutely unacceptable and, over the course of the past week, had made their way to the village where, now, they sat astride the golem horse, Nutt in front, clutching the reins, and Glenda behind, looking down on the poor, filthy youngling, chained by the neck, crouching in the mud in the early morning light.

"Oh my gods," Glenda breathed. "Was that how . . . ?"

"Yes," Nutt, gritted out. He slid from the horse. "Come around to the south end of the village."

"What are you doing?" she hissed as he crept through the brush. "If those villagers catch you they'll kill you!" She paused. "Actually no, it would be the other way around. But I'd still like to avoid it!"

"South end," Nutt hissed back, gesturing wildly toward the direction he was thinking. Glenda huffed and pulled the horse out.

In the center of the village, the youngling raised its head as Nutt crept closer, emerging from the bush on silent soles and slipping between two of the villagers' wood cabins. The smaller orc sniffed the air, and, suddenly, spotted Nutt. It made a quiet squeal and pelted forward on its chain, running on all fours, eyes somewhat mad with excitement, grunting and squeaking more and more loudly as it – he, Nutt saw, under the dirty loincloth – got closer. Three feet away, the chain snapped taut, and the little thing was jerked backwards, hitting the ground on its back with a thud and a groan. Inside the nearest house, Nutt heard movement, and he shushed the youngling, but it was no use.

Quickly, Nutt, darted out from between the houses and seized the chain, trying to pull it apart. The iron was of poor quality, and bowed easily, until finally, after what seemed like an age, a link gave.

"Vas geschieht?" A door slammed open and a villager, axe at the ready, appeared in his doorway. "Orcs!" he bellowed, when he caught sight of Nutt and the now-free youngling. "Orcs!"

Nutt grabbed the smaller orc's hand. "Run!" he yelled, for all the good it would do him. He pelted toward the south end of the village square, where he could see Glenda and the horse just beyond the treeline. "RUN!" The two tore toward the trees, crashed through the brush, and, in one fluid movement, Nutt grabbed the little thing and vaulted onto the horse, putting the creature smack between him and Glenda. "Go!"

As the horse galloped off down the road, the angry shouts of the village fading into the background, Glenda turned to him. "Are we even going to talk about this?" she yelled over the hoofbeats.

"What's there to say?" he yelled back, while the new orc babbled happily, looking adoringly up at Nutt. Glenda turned back forward, and twisted her hands into the clay mane, expression bemused. "Fair enough."

**Velvet Revolver – Slither**

By day, Rufus Drunkott was exactly as the rest of the world saw him: quiet, calm, collected Drumknott, with no imagination, no personal ambition and no _funny ideas_. It was a quiet life, and a comforting role, always in the quirky if protective shadow of Vetinari. And Rufus liked that about his day job. Sure the hours were long (1), and sometimes the expectations were unreasonably high, but it was a good job and most of all, no one expected him to be unreasonably clever, or personable, or quick on his feet. He was just expected to be . . . quiet Drumknott, unnoticed until necessary.

But some nights Drumknott would shed his persona and, under an alias, of course, always under an alias, he would go with some of the under clerks to the alley behind Jolly Panda Take-Away, and slip down into the basement, where the smoke hung heavy and the lights were just dim enough that you couldn't see the faces but you could always see the cards, and he would become Jake Morris. He and the clerks, of course, had an advantage and they'd play it well. Jake and his band would go maybe twice a month or so and one night they would simply play the game, be it poker, or gin, or blackjack, or whatever. But some nights – always poker nights – they'd go, and they'd work the room, and they'd count cards, and they'd make out like bandits. No one could ever prove it, and so they'd go back and lose a little and all past winning streaks would be forgotten.

Once, one of the other clerks asked Drumknott after a counting night if they'd be in trouble if Vetinari found out. Drumknott shrugged. "Oh, I wouldn't know, probably not. He'd probably make it sound like a civil service because we're stimulating the economy or taking blood money off the streets or something." The other clerk had nodded, as if that made perfect sense.

Later that night, Vetinari raised an eyebrow when Drumknott dumped the bag of cash on his desk. "Poker night?"

"Buddy Stradgett was playing," Drumknott said innocently. "Poor man can't bring himself to leave a table if he's on a losing streak; he feels as though he has something to prove, I think."

Vetinari riffled through the bills idly. "Strange, looks to be about the same amount of money he skimmed out of the Thieves' Guild Widows and Orphans fund. Funny how that works, isn't it?"

"Stranger that some civic-minded individual turned it in, eh?"

Vetinari tucked the cash back into the bag, a hint of a smile on his face. "Will wonders never cease."

(1) Read: incessant and batshit insane.

**Lustra – Scotty Doesn't Know**

Sam Vimes' first clue should have been the fact that, one Thursday, Vetinari didn't show up for the morning Watch meeting and Drumknott, for once, seemed to be steadfastly unwilling to a) admit he wasn't sure where the man was and b) help Vimes find him. The second clue should have been the suspicious bruise around the man's wrist two weeks later, briefly glimpsed during clue c) an unexpected run-in with the Patrician in Pellicool Steps.

"What are you doing, sir?" Vimes had asked, while his brain tried to contend with the fact that the Patrician was both in plainclothes and looking unusually casual and unkempt.

"Whatever I want," Vetinari had said haughtily, and both agreed wordlessly then and there that they would never speak of that moment again.

All the pieces, of course, fell into place a month and a half later when Vimes, taking a night-time walk through the city to clear his head after a long, tiring and irritating day clearing up a mess caused by a bit of a stir between the Assassins and Fools, saw what looked to be a disturbance behind the counter of a pet store. From what he could see of the back room through the window, there looked to be a bit of a struggle going on, and based on a brief glimpse of two shadows, a man and a woman were involved.

Instinct kicked in. The front door was locked, but a well-aimed kick took care of that. He was dimly aware of a scream when the door banged open, so he drew his sword as he ducked through the crates and cages, finally leaping the counter and leaning around the doorframe.

It was immediately apparent that what he had witnessed had _looked_ like a struggle, certainly, but that was completely incorrect. The woman yelped when he leaned around the door, yanking a long raincoat over the unclothed front of herself. The man – no, not just a man, Vimes's frantic brain suddenly realized in that glistening moment of clarity before panic kicks in, _Vetinari_ – was already in the process of hoisting his trousers back up. Vimes immediately covered his eyes and spun his back to the two.

"_What the hell?_" the woman was asking.

"Oh gods, oh my gods, I'm so sorry," Vimes groaned, stumbling out of the back room. "Oh my gods."

"_Vimes_?"

"Oh gods, sir, I'm so sorry," Vimes could hear himself saying, not really processing because at this point several parts of his brain had killed themselves preemptively to save themselves the trouble later. "It looked like – I was walking, I thought there was a fight . . . I didn't even think."

"What the _hell_ did you do to my door?" the woman demanded, coming out from behind Vetinari, wearing only the long raincoat. "You broke the jamb and everything!"

"I thought you were being burgled!"

"You could say that," Vetinari snickered, at which point the remaining parts of Vimes's brain that hadn't totally shut down called it a day and hit the 'off' switch.

"You could have knocked!" She paused and added, "Loudly."

"Listen, everyone calm down," Vetinari said, making a poor attempt at tucking his shirt in. "We're all adults here."

"He broke my door!"

"Oh my gods," Vimes groaned.

"You better pay for that," the woman snapped. "I'm going to get a robe."

"Well done on the, er, civic awareness," Vetinari said tentatively. "Although I personally would advise a little more . . . analysis of the situation before you go storming in, next time."

Vimes, realizing he may not actually be killed for this offense, slowly uncovered his eyes. "Sir?"

"Vimes, I'm not going to have you executed," the man sighed. "It was an accident and, quite frankly, if it had to be somebody, at least it was you. I can trust you to stay quiet. Saves quite a lot of hassle."

Vimes tried to think of where he could possibly go from there before hazarding "So are, er, are you two . . . ?"

Vetinari shrugged. "You could say that."

"Say what?" the woman asked, returning. She was dark-skinned, with shoulder-length curly black hair. She pulled the robe tighter around her shoulders and scowled at the front door. "Say that I'm damn sure getting police protection for my front door until I can get someone out here to fix it, that's what you can say."

"I'm sorry about that, ma'am," Vimes muttered.

"Er, Grace, that's Commander Vimes by the way, I'm sure you recognize him and Vimes this is Grace Speaker," Vetinari added hurriedly.

"Um, pleas – I mean, nice to meet you, sort of," Vimes stuttered. "I, uh, I wish it had been under better circumstances."

Grace grudgingly proffered a hand. "The same to you, Commander."

An awkward silence descended on the three, smothering all the life out of the entire situation. Finally, Vimes swung into autopilot and clapped his hands together. "Well, no crime in progress, guess I'll, er, be going then. I'll send someone down immediately to guard the door, sorry about that . . . Miss . . . ? Speaker?"

"Miss Speaker, yes apology accepted," Grace said, a crooked smile pulling at one corner of her mouth, her left eyebrow raised.

"And see you, uh, see you around. Sir. Um." And with that, Vimes fled. Vetinari and Grace watched him go.

"Well that was about as diametrically opposed to how I'd had it planned as it could have been," Vetinari said thoughtfully. "Still, I suppose the point got across."

"Did he think we were married?" Grace asked, leaning on the man.

"I don't think he thought at all," Vetinari said, bemused. "Ah, Vimes. We're the same age, you know."

"And yet you'd still think he'd caught his parents in the act." She shook her head. "Amazing. Do you think he'll do anything about it?"

Vetinari seemed to weigh the question. "I wouldn't be surprised if you saw more Watch patrols in this street. And I expect Sybil Ramkin may come calling on you at some point."

Grace blinked. "Really?"

"She'll figure it out, even if he doesn't tell her."

She leaned her head against his chest for another minute before she asked, "Are you going to do anything?"

He thought about it for a minute, and when Grace looked up at his face, she saw clearly the look of a man contemplating the vast possibilities of the Trousers of Time. Finally, he shrugged and shook his head. "You know, I don't think I will. After all, what else needs to be done?" He smirked. "I have faith, Grace, that good, dependable Vimes will take this to his grave."

-()-

WAT.

Review, skankbags. 3 If you don't I will have the Cyber Police backtrace you. The consequences will never be the same!


	4. A WILD RANDOM APPEARED

OMG ANTHER CHAPTER WTFery ABOUNDS. Also, only nine this time because a few of them are super fucking long(1). (Edited: JUST KIDDING I DID A CHEAPO, SEE IF YOU CAN FIGURE OUT WHICH ONE I ADDED IN).

(1) That's what she said.

Disclaimer: Yeah, got nothing.

-()-

**Bruce Springsteen – Pay Me My Money Down**

After 30 years of rule, Lord Vetinari had decided to, metaphorically, call it a day and run off to somewhere quiet and warm. Lord Downey could really not be more pleased about that fact, if only because it meant the man's insistent pestering about the Guild paying its taxes every year would soon come to an end. So it was with confidence – although, he was disappointed to realize, this was tinged with anxiety – that he made his way into the Patrician's office one Thursday afternoon. Vetinari looked up. Downey's stomach dropped when he saw von Lipwig, Postmaster General, head of the Royal Bank and Chief Tax Collector, as well as recently-elected Patrician (damn krisma, Downey knew it would be too much of an advantage in a popular election. Either that or Vetinari's ability to rig just about any kind of competition, be it election or innocent game of checkers, the bastard) standing by Vetinari's desk.

"Hello," Downey said cautiously. Vetinari's smile was quick and not at all pleasant. Von Lipwig's, true to character, was wide, welcoming, and by all appearances completely genuine. Downey found himself hating the man a little more.

"Hello, your Lordship," von Lipwig said warmly. "Please, sit." Downey did so, while Vetinari stared him down. The head of Assassins was rapidly coming to the conclusion that he _really_ hated this two-pronged approach.

"I shall cut right to business, so as not to waste your time," von Lipwig said quickly, pulling a packet of papers off the Patrician's – his, Downey supposed – desk. "I was going over the Assassins' Guild tax record the other night, which I admit I probably should have done sooner, but you know how it goes, and was absolutely _astonished _to see your esteemed Guild hasn't paid taxes in well over twenty-five years!"

"Astonishing," Vetinari said dryly. "There was, of course, that on Hereshebian half-_dong_ about seventeen or so years ago, but I have to say I think that hardly counts."

"Right, sir, of course."

Downey sighed. His worst fear realized, he simply decided the best thing to do would be to play it straight. "Gentlemen, can we please dispose of the good cop and Vimes approach (1) please? I'm sure it's not necessary."

Von Lipwig looked to Vetinari, who shrugged. "Well then, Lord Downey," the younger man said slowly, "I'm sure you know that with the current Undertaking nearing full completion, the city is in need of the final funds to simply wrap the whole thing up, and as the latest budget reports have shown, the Undertaking, after the initial investment, has only been profitable. I'm afraid that we – I – am put in the position to request that the Assassins Guild does its civic duty and pays its taxes so as to provide funds for the rest of the project. Tax refunds, of course, would be one benefit, as would a portion of the profits from the Undertaking, since the Guild is one of the original investors."

That much was true, at least. Downey had sunk AM$1 million into the thing in the beginning, figuring it would just wash out the tax thing at the end of the day. Clearly, this plan was not as well thought-out as he'd hoped. "Mr. von Lipwig, I apologize for the current taxation lapse on the part of my Guild, and would be happy to pay all future taxes without complaint. However, I simply can't help the laxness of the previous administration."

"Oh, shut it, Downey, I was after you personally for the better part of the last fifteen years about that money. You just never paid," Vetinari said calmly. "You received statements, auditors – all of whom you inhumed, may I point out – and government-provided assistance to help you sort out the whole mess. I have records."

"I'm not paying you," Downey mumbled. "I'll pay von Lipwig but I'll not pay you, Havelock Vetinari."

Moist thought of interjecting here, but thought better of it. These waters clearly ran deeper than he was prepared to deal with. Vetinari raised an eyebrow. "Really Downey?"

"Listen, you bastard, it's not that I don't like you – I don't, but that's beside the point – it's that my institution has yet to see any kind of benefit from your government. So why should I pay you?"

"Your institution wouldn't benefit or suffer if _chimpanzees_ ran the city, Downey," Vetinari sighed. "It's old enough and got enough clout that honestly it hardly matters who's in charge these days. Surely you realize that."

"I won't pay it, chimpanzees or not."

"Downey."

"Vetinari."

There was a long staring match, which Moist knew Downey would lose, would _have_ to lose, but nevertheless felt very uncomfortable being on the fringes of. Finally, the stare broke, and both men smirked.

"Well, I'd hate to see the good reputation of the Guild dragged through the mud," Vetinari said calmly, as if the previous stand-down had never occurred. "As such, any debt to the city would _obviously_ not be made public."

"Of course."

"That said, I'm sure you understand that the debt to the city must be paid, and what better time to start over than under a new administration?" Vetinari leaned back in his chair, hands folded on his desk, still trying not to smile while Downey did roughly the same thing, albeit looking down with a quiet smile on his own face. "I'm sure you and Mr. von Lipwig can work out a reasonable payment schedule and your institution's debt to the city can be settled."

"Er, yes, that would be good," Moist said quickly, feeling that at least here his input would be required.

"Absolutely," Downey said happily. "Thank you for your lenience, sir, Mr. von Lipwig." He rose, as did Vetinari, and the two shook hands. Vetinari then followed the man to the door. Words were exchanged, which Moist couldn't make out, and Vetinari shut the door behind the head of Assassins leaning against it with a bemused smile.

"What just happened?" he asked, thoroughly bewildered.

"Politics, von Lipwig," Vetinari answered. "That was politics. With a hint of an old grudge thrown in for good measure. Downey should pay you back over the next twenty years, so long as I'm not in office."

Moist slumped. "I'm never going to get the hang of this, sir, this is going to go terribly."

Vetinari walked back across the office, still looking unusually pleased with himself. "I shouldn't worry about it, everyone gets the hang of it eventually." He sat back down and leaned back. "It doesn't hurt to dig up a little dirt on your opponent either, remember that."

"What did you do?" Moist asked, suspicion creeping into his voice.

"Nothing," Vetinari said innocently. "You'll get your money, I get a drink out of it and Downey . . . Downey knows full well what he got."

Back in his coach, Downey sagged with relief. The bastard had the nerve to bring up the incident they swore they would both never talk about again. Authorities were _still_ trying to get to the bottom of that. And after all this time no one would remember the dark-haired boy rolling around in the pile of bacon that ultimately did no harm, they'd only remember the naked ginger kid with the burrito screaming about 'widdly scuds' while he madly vandalized public property. No, word could never get out of that, regardless of the cost.

He hunkered down further into the cushions and decided to have the anti-drug seminar moved up to earlier this year.

(1) This is the Discworld, after all.

**Gomez – Where Ya Going?**

Moist von Lipwig, at the tender age of fifteen, was not sure where he belonged in the world, but he was fairly certain he didn't belong in his hometown. Things were quiet here: life was simple, everyone knew everyone else, girls were pretty, and crime was rare, besides the occasional werewolf attack. No, he longed for something with more flash, with more pizzazz, with more excitement. Well, maybe not too much excitement, as he was the sort to enjoy a lie-down after lunchtime.

When he met the stranger in the pub one night, his worldview shifted radically, and suddenly he knew where he belonged. "You never have to answer to anyone but yourself," the man had slurred. "You just have to be quick enough on yer feet to come up with something good in not very much time. And oh, the money you'll make."

Moist went out and bought the tin of boot polish that would change his life forever later that night.

And now, twenty years later, he stood in a shop in Ankh-Morpork, boot polish in hand, gold suit gleaming in the light coming through the windows, and he smiled.

**Case of the Mondays – Careless Whisper**

To be perfectly honest, Juliet was not really bright enough to be the jealous sort. Where other, quicker women might see flirting, Juliet simply saw Trev chatting warmly with other girls at the bar, smiling and entertaining them. That was her Trev. And when he would dance with them for a few songs before coming back to dance with her, she never batted an eye. He simply liked to meet his fans. Gods knew she did.

But Trev knew, deep inside, that it was much more than just entertaining fans. And the guilt gnawed at his soul, here and again. He had a beautiful girlfriend, pretty and charming and kinder than the day was long. And yet, the other girls, they knew about current events, they could talk about something other than fashion. And they weren't exactly hard on the eyes, either.

He knew he wasn't the brainiest himself, but sometimes he wondered about the value of brains over beauty.

And one day he stopped dancing with other girls. He'd sign autographs and chat and smile, but he only danced with Juliet. Juliet thought about it for a minute, which was often the longest she'd lend thought to any one topic, and decided that he must be trying to avoid injury off the football pitch, and then never thought about it again.

**The Ting Tings – That's Not My Name**

Adora Belle had, eventually, been glad to get married, even if her husband did drive her right up a wall sometimes. But even these days she did like to go out to the pubs here and there, if only because her new social circles had introduced her to the equally prickly Sergeant Angua, and the two of them had more fun going out than they had any rights to.

Moist had worried a little at first, but when Adora came home one night with blood on her stiletto, his fears were assuaged.

Now the two were sipping their drinks, watching the drama unfold in the Sheep's Arse (the owner had never quite grasped the art of naming one's business) when a man sidled over. Adora could smell the Bearhugger's from a foot and a half away; Angua had picked him up about an hour ago, when he'd staggered into the pub. "Hello, ladies," he said, or tried to. His tongue didn't appear to be cooperating.

"Hello," Adora said curtly. Angua smiled.

"I'd buy you two drinks but I'm a bit short on cash," he managed, hiccupping throughout this announcement. "You are awfully good-looking."

"What a nice compliment," Angua replied, cordial to the last.

"Reason I'm short on cash being I'm an inventor," he said seriously, as if this explained everything. "Working on something."

"Ah?" The ladies exchanged looks and agreed that whatever was about to happen, it would probably have amusing results. "And what would that be?" Adora prompted.

"S'thing that lets you be warm!"

"A blanket?" Angua suggested.

"Sort of, can see you're quick on the uptake, miss! But, see, s'got, s'got thingy, _sleeves_, so'n you can be warm _and do things_."

"A robe?" Adora guessed.

"But _backwards_."

There was silence, filled only by the ambient noise of the pub. Adora raised her eyebrows. "You're inventing a backwards robe?"

"Yup!" He hiccupped. "You're both so smart. Would'n you like t'incest? Invest?"

"Er, no, on both counts," Angua snickered.

He leaned in, swinging his arm around Adora. "Aw, come on Jane and Stacy, it'll be worth its wei – Argh. Foot." A pained expression bloomed onto his face, and his eyes crossed.

"I'm so sorry," Adora said sweetly, "but you've got the wrong women. That's not our names."

**Glee Cast **(STOP JUDGING ME NOW) **– Safety Dance**

Ponder Stibbons threw forward the large lever on the widdershins side of Hex – who had never had a widdershins side before it apparently became crucially important, and, who, more importantly, was starting to be a 'who' to Ponder and his team – and leaned forward in his chair as the glass screen fuzzed and flickered and jumped to life.

+++ Hello Ponder. +++

He paused, typing carefully. _Hex, Adrian has left the team._

+++ Affirmative. +++

_You knew?_

+++ The fact had previously been established. +++

Ponder leaned back in the chair, springs of the suspension creaking with his reluctantly-but-steadily increasing weight. He slid a hand under his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. Had Adrian already told Hex? Perhaps more importantly, _had he told Hex first_?

+++ It was the logical solution. +++, the screen flashed. +++ A program was run to determine this. +++

_You helped him decide?_ Ponder typed frantically, hurling himself forward in the chair to do so as the suspension screamed its objections. Technically, punctuation wasn't necessary with Hex, but Ponder found it cathartic.

+++ A program was run. +++ Gears whirred and the screen flickered. +++ Objections from operator: P. Stibbons were considered. +++

Ponder cocked his head. Somehow, that made him feel better. Why did that make him feel better? He typed a command and waited.

+++ Operator: A. Turnipseed struck objections from operator: P. Stibbons from the program before final calculations. +++

Ponder stared at the screen before typing a very slow, deliberate question. With Hex, you had to be careful.

+++ Objections of operator: P. Stibbons were automatically added to program by HEX system during configuration. +++

Ponder smiled and leaned back, absent-mindedly stroking the glass case that housed the ant mound. Work would go on without Adrian; it always did. And perhaps it was for the best; Adrian had been getting increasingly mutton-headed about changes to Hex, delaying progress. And Hex had (almost) always worked better with the changes after they were out of beta, so Ponder had allowed himself a little indulgence of anthropomorphizing the machine and put Hex down as liking the changes. So now, without Adrian, they could change what they wanted.

As the machinery whirred away quietly, Ponder leaned back and reflected on how funny it was that things usually just worked out.

**Glee Cast – Any Way You Want It/Lovin' Touchin' Squeezin'**

It was 32nd of March, which was a totally innocuous day, really, to most people. In his office on the evening of that particular day, Lord Vetinari was however, painfully away for _something else_ and was, Drumknott noticed, working uncharacteristically fast, and – although Drumknott's mind scrambled to register this particular thought – _skipping things_. He watched the man warily as the Patrician semi-frantically leafed through a packet of minutes from the various guilds regarding the upcoming city-wide audits and hazarded "Is everything alright, sir?"

"Fine, Drumknott," Vetinari said tensely. He glanced to his left, where a pile of paper was still teetering on the edge of his desk. He absently initialed the last page of the minutes and slid them aside. "And that's _all_ past date?" he asked, semi-incredulously. "How did I get that behind?" There was, almost imperceptible, a note of accusation to this.

"Well, sir, your current . . . _time constraints_ have been taking a toll, I'm sure," Drumknott responded, a hint of sullenness creeping in at the edges. "And there's the meeting at 6, sir, may I remind you."

"What meeting?"

Half a city away, Grace Speaker was _also_ aware of the date, and the _time_, too, thank you very much. She sighed, chin in her left hand, as she sat at the counter of her shop, looking at the face of the clock, willing it to read something else, perhaps two hours earlier, when she'd actually been in a much better mood and hadn't even felt the thin tendrils of disappointment starting to ooze in. She was generally forgiving of tardiness from her . . . from him, but today? _He'd promised_. With an expression that almost read as sadness, she looked away from the clock and back to the crossword.

The sound of Lord Downey's footsteps had hardly died away before Vetinari was out of his chair, and elbowing the wall in a very particular indentation. "_Sir_," Drumknott said severely, feeling at this point the whole thing had gotten a bit ridiculous and the Patrician obviously needed some form of intervention.

"What, Drumknott?" Vetinari asked, muffled due to the fact that he was hastily pulling the robe of office over his head before casually pitching it into the secret passage.

"There are still the overdue reports, sir," he said quickly, trying to keep his voice even and calm. It does not do to shout at one's employer, even when the two of you have spent so much time together that your relationship does not so much resemble that between a secretary and an employer, but more of a heavily dysfunctional friendship. "Some of them are _quite_ overdue."

"They are not; I looked," Vetinari said hastily, throwing a long black coat on. "I'll get to them tomorrow –"

"That's what you said yesterday." Icy glares were exchanged, but Drumknott held firm. "Sir."

Slowly, never breaking the stare, Vetinari ran a hand through his hair, which promptly disarranged itself from the normal smoothed-down state, lending the man the appearance of a disheveled funeral director. A _testy_ disheveled funeral director. "It'll get done," he said finally, dismissively, when Drumknott broke the stare and looked to his clipboard.

The Patrician moved to leave via the main doors, but Drumknott hastily positioned himself in the way. This move was akin to certain death for most people, but Vetinari and Drumknott tended to work these things out. It was a bit like being the handler of a big cat, albeit a handler who took all his orders from the big cat and was expected to give markedly less tummy rubs but nevertheless was deeply familiar with the death-defying parts of the job. Vetinari experimentally leaned to the left, then the right, Drumknott mirroring him, always in the way.

"Sir, I have to speak plainly. Your . . . _time constraints_ are, I feel, taking a toll on your work." He paused. "_And sleep_," he added. Vetinari looked thoughtful.

"Drumknott, what's the date again?"

"March thirty-second, sir," the clerk said reproachfully. "Which is the paperwork you _should be_ completing tonight. When, in point of fact, the most recent paper in _that_ pile is from March twenty-seventh." He shot a pointed look to the pile still squatting on the Patrician's desk.

"Drumknott, does the date Spune twentieth hold any particular significance to you?" Vetinari asked innocently.

"Of course," the clerk responded instantly. His eyes narrowed as he tried to piece together where this line of questioning was going to lead.

"And does it mean anything in particular to your young lady?" Vetinari continued, rocking happily backwards on the balls of his feet.

"I should think so!" Vetinari raised an eyebrow. A fraction of a second later, Drumknott's eyes widened. "Oh." He looked to his boss. "_Oh._"

"Yes, that's a very big '_oh_,' well done Drumknott."

"What time were you supposed to –?"

"Six."

"_Oh_."

Drumknott stepped aside as Vetinari pushed the door open. "Don't wait up for me, I'll be back in the morning," he said, walking backwards. "If I survive the next thirty minutes." Drumknott stood and watched, suddenly embarrassed, as the ruler of the city shouldered open a secret passage and listened until he couldn't hear the man running anymore.

It was, in fact, thirty-_five_ minutes later that Grace heard the front door's bell tinkle in the dark front of the store. She most definitely did _not_ look up from her book and did _not_ do anything to betray any sort of emotion that she may or, in point of fact, may not have, been feeling. It wasn't until he cleared his throat awkwardly that she looked over the rims of her reading glasses at him. And the roses. Lots of roses. She blinked.

"Hello," she said, momentarily caught off-guard, her flood of anger sandbagged into submission.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

". . . You brought flowers," she said incredulously. She had gotten to know a lot more about Havelock Vetinari in the past few months than she rather suspected anybody except maybe Drumknott knew, and she had thought she knew his style. And flowers, well, flowers was _definitely_ not his style.

"Nothing says 'Sorry, I know I fucked up' like a dozen roses," he mumbled. A paper bag crinkled. "And orange chicken."

Grace couldn't help it. She smiled and went over to him, relieving him of the take-out bag. "So you got busy?"

"I got busy." It was like making a puppy admit to all of its past sins. You would be really, really angry if it weren't so sad and adorable.

"On today of all days?"

"Drumknott wouldn't let me leave."

"It's not even like we _have_ a real anniversary – didn't we assign this date because it was convenient for everybody?" she asked.

"Yes."

"And you still got busy?"

"Yes." He looked downright ashamed, which Grace assumed was an unfamiliar and possibly novel expression for him. She decided to let up.

"Well, I suppose if it was Drumknott's fault I'll have to have a word with him then, eh?"

He thought. "Well, I _tried_ to leave, but then Lord Downey showed up so I had to deal with _that_, which was _stupid_, by the way, and then Drumknott was all upset about the fact that there's still week-old paperwork, which is _also_ stupid and –" he slammed to a halt when Grace put her finger to his lips. "Am I still in trouble?"

"You bought me flowers and Agatean take-away, what do you think?"

He watched her carefully. "It's debatable."

She dropped her hand to her side and smiled. "Put the flowers down and come in, doofus."

**Ke$ha – Your Love is My Drug**

As a librarian, Gertrude had never had high expectations. Her ladyship was a wonderful employer, who was generous with the paychecks and never stinted on time off for holidays.

As a girlfriend, Gertrude had to admit she'd had terribly low expectations. She hadn't managed to find love yet, as of a year ago, and had pretty much settled for accepting a man that would be kind to her and didn't have any major skin disorders. But Drumknott had ruined her for that, oh yes, and how. The quiet little brown-haired man, always in the shadow of his own boss, but who could talk passionately about whatever she chose because, let's be honest, he'd probably had to learn about it for his job at some point. Rufus, who bought her flowers for every occasion, and sometimes "just because". Rufus, who had stood up to his boss and demanded more time off for personal time (and, although Gertrude didn't lend much thought to this, had been weirdly successful, almost as if Vetinari was grateful for the time alone).

Rufus, the most wonderful man she could have met. She'd given up her job with her Ladyship, who had said her goodbyes with a friendly smile and a pat on the head, and found work at the Merchants' Guild. Merchants, after all, produce a great many books, legitimate and not, and a prudent, well-trained librarian is always in demand. And now she was in Ankh-Morpork, Citie of One Thousande Surpri_f_es, with her very favorite surprise. Surpri_f_e even.

"Did you like dinner?" he asked, bumping off of her playfully as they walked back to his apartment at the Palace, hunched inside their coats.

She looked up, all smiles, white teeth and pink lipstick. "As always, Rufus."

(Note: D'AWWW GET SOME ACTION RUFUS, GOOD LAD.)

**Harvey Danger – Flagpole Sitta**

The sun dawned on the back room of Pellicool Pets one morning, spewing light in through the window and onto the two occupants of the bed, one of which groaned. And then said "Aaaargh."

"Mmmuf, what?"

"Aaargh, 's what." The sound of rustling in a pocket of a jacket, casually strewn across the rail and the head of the bed. "Just aargh."

"Good morning to you too, you ray of sunshine."

"Merp." Grace didn't open her eyes, but she did giggle. Havelock Vetinari, she had come to learn, was an early riser, an ironic fact because Havelock Vetinari hated being awake in the morning. He was, as Vimes was prone to reminding her, a complicated person. There was the sound of a metal chain, links, maybe a watch.

"What are you doing?" she grumbled, rolling over and cracking one sleepy eye. "What's the hurry?"

He was sitting up in the bed, pulling his shirt off the headboard. "I have to go to work." He squinted out the window. "You know, city? Lots of people? Teetering on the verge of anarchy and chaos?"

"Teetering on the verge?" Grace asked, a trace of sarcastic amusement in her voice. "What time is it?"

"No idea." Grace rolled her eyes and fumbled around on the nightstand. The first _real_ secret she'd been allowed to discover, and that was only after he ended up staying over unexpectedly, was that Lord Vetinari had, possibly, the worst vision out of anyone she knew. He'd had that Leonard man that lived in his attic – which had brought up an entirely new line of questions – fashion some kind of glass lenses that went _on his eyeballs_, which was disgusting and sounded painful, but nevertheless allowed the illusion of a lack of weaknesses. Trick was, you couldn't sleep in them. So, eventually, Grace had found out, and now accepted the fact that without either the lenses or glasses he was fairly useless as far as reading or discerning objects went. "Here you go, Stella Luna."

"Okay, first, now I'm not telling you what time it is," he said haughtily, snatching the glasses out of her hand. "And second, that is a _female_ bat, out of, third, a _children's book_."

"Hmph." Grace closed her eyes and lay still for a minute, waiting. There was a sullen pause.

"It's eight o'clock, _ye gods its eight o'clock_. Where are my trousers?"

Grace shot up. "What day is it?"

"Thursday."

"Oh gods, the store opens at seven thirty on Thursday." She rolled out of bed. "I thought you would wake up!"

"I did too." Suitably clothed, he ran his hand through his hair and pulled the football cap on. "I always get up at four. Dammit." He shrugged his jacket on. Then he paused. "Wait."

"What?" Grace asked, annoyed, one sock on. He turned around, one finger raised, lopsided smile fully in place.

"I just remembered something."

"What?"

"We work for ourselves." A pause. "Well, technically, I work for the city but I certainly don't have anyone that holds me to specific hours."

"Yes, but there's still the question of behaving like a responsible adult," Grace said severely. She watched him. "This is just your way of rationalizing a coffee run, isn't it?"

"It might be."

She sighed. "Tell you what. You're all in your incognito alter-ego gear, right? So I'll open the store, you watch it for me, and I'll go get coffee. No one will be in this early anyway."

"So why open the store?" he whined. "Or I could go."

"No, _I'll_ go; the less you're out the less chance you have of blowing your cover, Mr. Double-life."

"It's not really a double life as such, more like a secret life. I mean, I'm not really leading a double life, I'm just trying to remain extremely private with –"

She tossed him the keys. "Shut up, sit by the register, I will be back in fifteen minutes."

Downstairs, Vetinari settled himself in behind the counter, pulling a crossword puzzle from Agatea out of a pocket. He was halfway through the 'across' clues when the bell over the door tinkled. He looked up, then quickly down again.

"_Mum_," the younger girl was saying, "I don't _want_ to work for the Guild! I want to open my own shop!"

"Yes, darling, but you lack experience," the older woman said, bustling past the puppy cages while her daughter paused to pet the pups. "You'd have to work somewhere first, gain some experience in running a business, and then who knows if you'd even be able to open your own business?"

"What's so bad about that?" the daughter asked, shaking her head as she moved away from the puppies. Her mother pulled a cat collar off the shelf and turned around.

"Honestly, dear, do you really want to work in a shop? And end up like that poor man?" Vetinari didn't have to look up to realize she was pointing at him. Still staring fixedly at the puzzle, he raised an eyebrow. "Menial labor for minimum wage, all because you didn't want to get an education and a steady job with a Guild?"

"Mum, you're being rude!"

"Oh, is _that_ the kind of person I am now? Rude? Dear, I am just trying to keep you from having regrets." She approached the counter. "A mum only wants her daughter to be happy. Excuse me, you man, we'd like to pay for this." She paused. "_Excuse me_." She turned to her daughter, sighed, and then something seemed to occur to her. She tapped the counter. "Excuse me, please tell my daughter how you feel about your job?"

_Act idiotic_, Vetinari reminded himself. _They'll never suspect._

"_Mum_!"

"I regret it occasionally," he mumbled, being very careful not to look up as he wrote the number on the tag for the collar down in the margins of the crossword. There was another sound of the bell, and a barely-audible intake of breath. He smirked. "Given the chance to do it again, I think I'd go for something different. Less responsibility, maybe."

"Ah, see?" The mother turned to her daughter, self-satisfied smile in place. "Regrets, dear. Probably works all hours for the owner while she's out having a good time, eh?"

"_This job_, on the other hand," he plowed on, "is very educational, and the hours aren't bad." He barely looked up, just for the enjoyment of catching the mother's expression and, in the background, Grace's 'don't-make-me-yell-at-you-after-this' death glare. The mother's eyebrows shot up. "I'm covering," he said, flashing a quick smile.

Judging by the daughter's expression, the slow sun of realization was dawning over her consciousness. The mother, on the other hand, was impervious to any such eureka moment. She handed over some bills – _seriously, lady, I'm on the one, the disguise isn't _that_ great_ – and sniffed. "Well, then, I apologize for the intrusion. But I'm sure you understand my point. Are you a Guild member, sir? Merchants', perhaps?"

He didn't say anything, instead leaning back in the chair, using the paper to shield his face, and pulled his wallet out of his pocket, flashing his black Guild badge too quickly for her to see the name printed on it.

"Oh, _see_, Mum? _See_?" The daughter was smirking smugly. "Menial labor for minimum wage, eh?"

"And I do pay over minimum wage, actually," Grace said quickly, before the now-spluttering mother disintegrated into rage or tears, or possibly both. She turned to the daughter, who was squinting suspiciously at Vetinari. "If you're interested, I _have_ been looking for someone else to help out a bit. You could lend a hand, maybe pick up a little education along the way, eh?"

"You're the owner?" the mother asked faintly, mouth gaping open. "But . . . But you're a wo –"

"A wonderful boss, _thank you_," Vetinari cut in, smirking at Grace behind the paper. Grace smiled glassily. "Your change is on the counter."

"Have a nice day," said Grace, in that shopkeeper tone of voice that suggested that the client was, however politely, being dismissed from the premises. "Miss, you can stay if you're interested in a job." The mother shot her daughter a dirty look as she hurried from the store. No sooner had the door snapped shut than Grace whirled on Vetinari. "And as for _you, _you're fired. I can't leave you alone for ten minutes!"

He dropped the paper and shrugged. "I got the money! I wrote the number down! That's what you do, right?"

"Are you the Patrician?" the young lady asked quietly.

"No, I'm Charlie," Vetinari said quickly. "Important distinction."

The young lady looked skeptical, but stayed quiet. Grace sighed. "Anyway, here's your coffee. Next time you can jolly well go and get it. Diplomacy, _hah._"

"Didn't you have a Guild badge?" the girl asked, still piecing the puzzle together.

"I'm supposed to be an _impersonator_," Vetinari said, getting up and rearranging his hat. "Exact copy, licenses and all." He grabbed his coffee and made his way to the door. "See you later Grace. And possibly Erica."

"Amazing you knowing my name like that," Erica said brightly. "Not as amazing as you being Charlie though. Are you working with the wizards? 'Cos it's incredible, you being here and down at the Art Museum at the same time." She winked. Vetinari made a face and a hand motion that, indisputably, signaled that he would be watching her, before he ducked out the door and made his way down the street.

Grace laid a hand on the girl's shoulder. "You realize that if you say anything, you'll be killed?"

Erica laughed. "I won't say _anything_, miss, don't worry." She lowered her voice. "Although, frankly, I think most people would be relieved, poor man."

Grace nodded. "Be that as it may, discretion is probably for the best." She took a sip of coffee. "Now, dear, running a pet store isn't all fun and games and fluffy animals." She smirked. "Why don't you start out with feeding the kittens?"

**Mike Posner – Cooler Than Me**

It was one of those jokes of the Universe, Lord Downey reflected, that no matter what he did, Havelock Vetinari would, sooner or later, find a way of doing _exactly_ the same thing, but better. In school, he'd always managed to get better marks. As an adult, Downey had been triumphant briefly when he'd been promoted to Treasurer and Advisor, putting him solidly above Havelock's position of Provost. Oh course, the bloody man had gone and shot all that down later when he ascended(1) to the Patricianship and done a better job with it than, Downey knew, he could have ever done.

But he'd made his peace with it. Vetinari had a coolness factor going for him, he had style and, in some indescribable way, he was almost _likeable_. Likeable in a way that meant you were always one step away from hating him, but for now you just wanted to be in his good graces because that meant you were in with the man at the top of the heap. But _now_, this was just getting ridiculous.

_His girlfriend_. Havelock Vetinari had a _girlfriend_ and not just some rich baggage from some far-flung country, or some mysterious vampire, but an honest-to-goodness Ankh-Morporkian _human being_. And she was good-looking, and smart, and modestly wealthy in her own right. Not that Downey's own wife wasn't all of those things, he tried to tell himself when he went off on this tangent(2), but _really_? What had Vetinari done, cosmically, that put him squarely on the good side of karma? Well, sure, he'd benevolently ruled the city for years and years, and been shot and poisoned and arrested and deposed and coshed in the head that one time, but _really_?

And now he had the _nerve_, the bastard, to upstage him at his Guild's own ceremony. The new building opening in an attempt to relieve pressure on the current one in terms of housing and classroom duties, with the whole Guild staff in attendance, and there was that . . . that _flash bastard_ with a damn _suit_ on – gods, at the least the robe didn't look good, why couldn't he wear _that_ – and bloody smoked glasses. He was fifty-seven years old and he _still_ managed to look _cool_.

Downey scowled. Sometimes the universe just wasn't bloody fair.

(1) This being Ankh-Morpork, 'ascended' is obviously not literal. If we were going to be literal, Havelock Vetinari snuck in through the back door, stabbed a few convenient people, stepped on a few toes, slick-talked his way around the City Council and sort of sidled into the Patricianship.

(2) Lady Downey was, actually, not bad-looking, and she certainly wasn't dumb. But she did sort of have a . . . tendency to nag.

**P!nk – Raise Your Glass**

The fact that a Patrician of Ankh-Morpork had, after thirty-five years, managed to retire, was an amazing enough point in and of itself. The fact that he had _gone on_ to live another thirty years, to the age of 92, was even more amazing. And, secretly, no one was more surprised than Havelock Vetinari himself.

Of course, it hadn't been a _great_ surprise. More like a 'oh-hey-you're-getting-audited' kind of surprise. Unavoidable, always sort of expected, but nevertheless completely unpleasant. He'd managed it with as much dignity as he could, and thank whatever gods were out there that the _worst_ of his problems were bad eyes and arthritis in more joints than he bothered keeping track of, but in any case he had very definitely not enjoyed it. And so it was that one day, when he woke up and immediately saw the pattern on the ceiling that he sighed with relief.

"About time," he muttered, standing up out of bed and body, barely sparing a glance at the latter while he stretched happily for the first time in at least a decade. He looked down at his spirit, shook off the age and the years like a fine patina of dust, and looked around.

He felt rather certain that there was supposed to be someone else here. There was a blue cord attaching his ankle to his body's ankle which, when he experimentally tugged on it, failed to give way. And so he settled in to wait, idly twirling the slack of the string while he did so.

The passage of time wasn't exact, and so he wasn't sure how long it was before Commander Vimes – or rather, his spirit – arrived, axe in hand. "Ah, Commander," he said calmly. "How nice to see you again."

Vimes stopped – aha – dead in his tracks, mouth open. He shut it, then opened it again, before he managed to say "_Really_? Bloody hells, man, _even in the godsdamned afterlife_?"

"What?" Vetinari shrugged. "What'd I do? It's not _my_ fault you're late." He paused. "Forgive me asking, but what happened to Death?"

Vimes smirked. "Hah, finally don't know something, do you? It took me 92 years, but I finally found something!"

"Yes, well done," Vetinari sighed.

Vimes couldn't help but look smug. "Something about belief. The people believed I would hunt criminals down, even in the afterlife, so here I am, collecting the souls of Ankh-Morporkian criminals."

_How apt_, Vetinari thought. He fought back a smile. "And dignitaries too, it would seem."

Vimes smiled broadly. "No, sir, just the criminals."

Vetinari smiled now, too. "Is that so? Well, I'm sure I don't know why you're here for me, but it's nice all the same. Sort of lends a personal touch."

"Glad I could make the experience more enjoyable for you, sir." Vimes looked to the proffered string in Vetinari's hand before raising the blue-edged axe and bringing it down. The string popped out of existence with a _snap_. Vetinari rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet.

"So what now?" he asked, at length. The room was not fading out of existence, dust was not blowing around them, clouds were not sprouting up left and right. All in all, it was a little anticlimactic. As background, Drumknott entered the room and froze. Cautiously, he approached the bed. "_Oh, gods,_" he breathed.

Vimes looked a little embarrassed. "Well, here's the thing. There's uh, there's a question of your afterlife."

"I understand there's usually a desert," Vetinari said, raising his voice over the distressed cries for help that were coming from the mortal plane.

Vimes grinned devilishly. "I think I actually might take a moment and enjoy this."

"What?"

"I know something you don't know!"

"Honestly, Vimes," Vetinari said, rolling his eyes. "You can hardly expect I knew what my afterlife had in store for me."

"You seemed fairly unfazed when I showed up!"

"Well," Vetinari conceded. "I mean, I hadn't expected it, but it wasn't surprising as such." He frowned. "Now what's supposed to happen now?" Vimes grinned broadly. "_Vimes_."

"Alright, don't get testy." Vimes reached into a pocket and pulled out a black bag. Velvet, by all appearances. He handed it over to the Patrician. "That's for you. Your destiny is inside."

Vetinari took the bag and looked to Vimes with what looked like, possibly, slight trepidation. "What's in it?"

Vimes waved to the bag. "Go on, open it." He was still grinning like an idiot, even with Drumknott's anguished moans in the background. "The sooner you open it, the sooner I don't have to listen to your clerk mourn you."

Vetinari turned to Drumknott, eyebrows raised. He waved to the man. "Hey, that's real anguish there!" He paused. "I mean, it's a little over the top, but he's really upset! About me, I would remind you."

"Just open the bag, Vetinari."

There was a soft rustle as the man pulled the bag open, looking inside. "You're kidding."

"Go on."

"_You're kidding_." Vetinari looked up, waving the bag. "This is a joke, right? An elaborate welcome-to-death hazing ritual?"

Vimes was laughing. "No, it's real! Go on, keep going." He wiped away a tear. "Oh, this _will_ be glorious."

Vetinari tried to scowl, but a stupid grin was trying desperately to overpower that expression. He reached into the bag and pulled from it, gleaming and shining, a halo. "So how does it go?" He looked to Vimes, who was doubled over laughing. "Fine, be that way." He pulled it over his head, where it bobbed into place.

"Oh gods, never thought I'd see the day," Vimes howled, leaning on a table.

Vetinari rummaged around in the bag and pulled out a many-handed watch. He buckled it onto his wrist, trying to scowl at Vimes. No sooner had the bight been tucked in than a tremendous pair of wings erupted from the man's shoulder blades, briefly knocking the former Patrician off-balance and sending Vimes into further hysterics.

"Havelock Vetinari the _guardian angel_! Oh, gods, with wings and everything!" There was a soft, slithering sound.

"And a flaming sword," Vetinari added in the sudden silence, eyeing the blade of the thing and testing the balance before he sheathed it and buckled it on. "Can't really conceal it though. Shame." He rooted around in the bag some more. "Are there instructions?"

"Typically they just drop into your head," Vimes chuckled. "Ye gods, I can't believe it."

"Well _you're_ a grim reape – Oof, there they are." Vetinari raised a hand to his temple, swaying slightly. He blinked once or twice, reasserted his balance, and then smiled slightly. "Oh. That's it then."

"Where's your harp?"

Experimentally, the Disc's newest guardian angel reached into the depths of his black jacket and pulled out a dagger. The length of the blade lit up like a strip of magnesium. He smiled. "Happily for everyone, Commander, I don't really think harps are involved."

-()-

Awww, they're all so feel-good. I'm cute sometimes, I can't help it.

QUESTION TO READERS: When you read this crap, do you listen to the songs? Only if you don't know them? Just curious. You can just add it into your review, which you were going to write anyway, right? Aww, of course you were, I knew it. You're so sweet, my little chinchillas.


	5. In which I hardly cheated at all

This meme is why I never get work for school done.

Some pretty bangin' songs in this one, ladies and gents – hit up the facetubes to get familiar. Hells yeahh.

Working on a spinoff for this crap too – your fingers best be crossed I get my papers typed up so you can partake (hint: It's all Vetinari and Grace. _All them_. You know you want it.).

Disclaimer: I own the pilot and his shitty-ass ship. Yay!

"_(480): It was scary, we all screamed. Never make mimosas in a car."_

_- Texts From Last Night_

-()-

**Linkin Park – Waiting for the End**

The sleek black casket was lowered into the ground, and the Patrician watched it with a measure of distaste, rain sliding off the brim of his black top hat. As the first handful of dirt was thrown onto the polished surface, newly-sworn-in Havelock Vetinari smiled broadly.

"_I hereby grant, on the power vested in me as Attorney of the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork," said Mister Slant, "you, Havelock Vetinari, as Patrician of the City."_

"_Thank you," Vetinari had said, fighting back the tremble in his hands. He smiled, quick and thin, and his blue eyes sparked._

Around the graveyard, the city hummed. New Patrician, fresh meat. Inside, Vetinari was humming.

New Patrician. New City.

**Backstreet Boys – The One**

Moist von Lipwig wrapped his arms around his wife, and they smiled at one another, his broad and toothy, hers thin, just barely quirked up at the corners. "God, I love you," he said.

Two houses down, Commander Vimes looked to his wife across the dinner table, their son happily mashing his peas in between them. "So how was your day, dear?" Sybil smiled.

Half a city away, William de Worde was laying down next to his wife on the couch, reading the newspaper. "There's a typo in paragraph four," she said, pointing with her pencil, before she buried her face in his hair and giggled.

In a restaurant three streets over, Rufus Drumknott excitedly displayed his newest ring binder to the girl sitting across from him. "The rings interlace," he said excitedly. "So papers can't slip out." She seized it from him, all smiles.

And in the Palace at the top of Broadway, later that night, when the whole city was asleep, the tyrant was laying on his desk, back to the window, eyes closed. He smiled quietly in his sleep and wrapped and arm around a pile of papers, pulling it under his head and snuggling in.

**Cee Lo Green – Fuck you**

She was a year ahead of him, and she was gorgeous. Wayne Broquelin was in love, and his best friend, and far more attractive wingman, was out of commission.

"You cannot have lost your voice!" Wayne whined, his body sagging pathetically. "You need to lure her in with your freakishly weird charms!" Havelock, mute for at least the next 48 hours, shrugged helplessly. "Why am I friends with you?" The other boy scowled. Wayne frowned. "We have to get her anyway."

That afternoon, they followed her to a coffee shop, and sat at opposite sides, within visual contact. The girl sat in the middle of the shop, laughing with her friends and twirling her hair around a finger.

Wayne looked to Vetinari and, in Assassins' sign language, said _You need to make a move_.

_I can't talk, you idiot._

_She speaks sign language, play the pity card._

_You're retarded._

The girl, caught in the middle of this, looked from one boy to another, and over to Wayne. "What?" She asked. Her frown was fearsome. "Are you trying to pick me up?" Wanye shook his head desperately. In the background, Havelock put his head in his hands.

**My Darkest Days – Porn Star Dancing**

Who had known, before Moist, that Adora could dance. And not, Moist amended hazily, like waltzing. He watched as the caplet slid from her shoulders.

No, not like waltzing, he babbled to himself, as her hips swayed back and forth. He knelt at the end of the bed and watched as she eased the straps of her sleeveless dress down. She licked her lips slowly, and stepped toward him, her dress sliding precariously far down her chest.

"You like what you see, little Postmaster?" She pulled him to her by the lapels and kissed him before she let him go. He spilled onto his back, legs sprawled messily across the bed. She took hold of the bedpost and swung around it, coming to a gently swaying halt by the side of the bed. She slid the dress off her shoulders and Moist slipped a hand around her side, her hips gyrating all the while. Their foreheads touched and just for a moment they shared a smile, before she wrapped her hand around his neck and thrust him back onto the bed.

**Cage the Elephant – Ain't No Rest for the Wicked**

Look at the world, and blink. Watch is shimmer, like heat lines coming off hot tarmac.

In another world, there was no Patrician.

In another world, the city burned, years ago. John Keel died and the city burned and Ankh-Morpork died.

In another world, two boys, in the prime of life, left looking at the wreckage, one with a lilac still tucked under the leather strap of his breastplate, the other with a crumpled flower in his hand, marred by toothmarks, stood side-by-side on a hill and watched their futures burn.

It's not a bad world, all told.

In another world, two men learned how an expensive, private bank vault works, learned how to lie their way past the comfortable, well-paid guards, and learned how to make a trace explosive, complete with 50 yard detonator.

In another world, Robin Hood comes in the form of two young men, one all in black, dressed in a suit, not a hair out of place, and the other in brown, unshaven and unkempt.

Cities die, but people are people.

People need caring for, and, the young man in black had told his compatriot on that hill, years and years ago now, sometimes the ends damn well justify the means.

**Beyoncé – Single Ladies (Put a Ring On It)**

He'd never had a girlfriend, not really. Never engaged, never betrothed and certainly never married. No, there'd never even been a remote commitment.

So why were weddings so irritating?

At this rate, the only ones left would be Lady Margolotta and Rosie Palm, and not the metaphorical one, thank you very much.

First had been Forthwith Selachii, vapid and blonde and clueless, but not without her . . . strengths. Yes.

Then there was Mary Sue de Worde. She was perfect. She was brunette and surprisingly agile and tiny and thin and just aggressive enough to be interesting.

And married. Which was interesting, in its own way, especially when her husband found out.

And then there had been all the girls on the Grand Sneer, from continent to continent, Genua to Klatch. He couldn't remember all of them.

And of course there was still Sybil, but Sybil was Sybil. Sybil was a friend, a shoulder to mope on, a word of advice in difficult times. You didn't marry Sybil.

So why, why with all of that under his belt, Faustus Downey wondered, was he staring into the face of bloody Juniper Cannon and saying 'I do'? Why was there a ring on his finger? Why _Juniper_?

Because, he thought glumly, she was probably the last one left that sodding Havelock Vetinari hadn't slept with first.

**Beastie Boys – Intergalactic**

The starship tore through the velvet black of space, silent to the outside observer. Inside, the pilot screamed wildly while the engines shrieked and sparks flew from the control panel. Behind him, another ship, sleek and slightly scratched but nowhere near the charred chipped mess of the screamer's craft, pursued, smooth purple glow of its thrusters coming to white-hot pinpoints.

"Bloody stupid damned Judoon!" the pilot practically wailed, punching a large green lever coming from the ceiling. "And sodding, fucking, lying, cheating bleeding humans and their _bloody galaxial monitoring agreement_!" He swung the ship wildly to the left, and more sparks flew from a mess of tubing that had spilled from the holding panels. "Aaargh!" The ship barrel-rolled as a laser blast took another chunk out of one of its stabilizers. The pilot bounced off the ceiling before coming to rest in a crouch on the floor.

"You will be unable to land, even if you escape," the Judoon captain boomed across the smaller ship's wave receiver. "Surrender."

"Like hell I'll surrender!" The pilot whipped a tentacle at button and made contact, barely avoiding another laser blast. "_Dammit_," he screamed, with feeling. And then suddenly the ship lurched forward and drifted quietly. Cautiously, he picked himself up off the floor after a moment's breathless peace, and padded to the glass, deeply conscious of the fact that there were no more lasers, and no missile-evasion alarms ringing.

Above him, a giant green flipper, asteroid-pocked, swept past, fragments of the Judoon ship spinning around its tip. The pilot breathed. "I knew I bloody loved turtles."

**Family Guy – The Freaking FCC**

"Mom, what's sideboob?" Young Sam asked one day over breakfast. His father spit out his oatmeal.

"Where did you hear that word?" the Elder Sam demanded, mopping bits of oatmeal off the table under his wife's accusing glare.

"The paper." Young Sam patiently pointed to the back page of the newspaper. "Says right there. Sideboob."

"It's . . . a very bad word," Vimes said weakly. "Excuse me, dear."

Twenty minutes later, Vimes was having a row with William de Worde about censorship in Vetinari's office, interrupting the newsman's unscheduled meeting with the Patrician. "Honestly, Vimes, it's not like it says 'Piss Shit Fuck Bugger Twatwaffle' in gigantic letters," Vetinari said mildly, causing the assembled jaws in the room to drop, and stony, shocked silence to descend. "Sideboob is pretty mild, comparatively." He looked up. "I'm sorry, did I say something wrong?"

Vimes vowed, later, over the stiffest fruit juice he could mix(1), to never, ever _evereverever_ discuss censorship with Vetinari ever again.

(1) A mixture of cranberry, orange juice, mashed bananas, kiwis, apples and a dash of what Willikins generously referred to as 'spirulina' but which Vimes had read was algae. It started with 'al-' and right now, that was all Vimes needed.

**2Pac – California Love**

Bengo Macarona had, at first, despaired that the festering cesspool of Ankh-Morpork was so very different from the white sand, clear-water beaches of his native Genua. The buildings were dirty, and red brick or slate or just rotted wood, and seemed to hunch over the streets, bending from age or, perhaps because the foundation buildings that the current street level was built on were likewise hunched. The first time he'd walked from the University to the Mended Drum, he'd shoved his hands into his pockets and walked quickly, head down, trying to quell his disgust.

He'd assumed, of course, that the women of Ankh-Morpork would be equally dumpy, perhaps just as hunched as the buildings they originated. But in the Drum, he'd found, he was more or less wrong. Sure there was always the ugly friend, but as the young women sidled and swayed up to him, underthings hinting at possible future exposure, blouses and dresses stretched tight over very specific bits, he revised his initial assessment.

Of course, he hadn't the slightest interest in them, he told himself, as he smiled dazzlingly at an assembled group of girls that had made their way over to the dark-haired olive-skinned wizard. He was, after all, a wizard, and more importantly, he didn't normally like to play on that side of the fence.

Still, he thought, as one of the blondes bent over and snapped up quickly, jiggling in some fairly important areas, it always paid to sample the local flavors.

**Coolio Ft. 2Pac – Gangster's Paradise**

The Cable Street Particulars didn't dissolve after the 25th of May, though the department fell into neglect under Snapcase's madly spinning eye. Those Particulars that were smarter faded into the background, spied when they had to and drank with the other watchmen when they didn't, but some that were dumb, or desperate for camaraderie, or just plain nasty were dedicated to the old ways.

Sam Vimes stared down a trio of them, outside Old Lady Sepulcher's tea shop, one rainy night. He scowled, the expression becoming increasingly comfortable on his young face these past few months.

"Ah," the leader said, swinging his bloodied cosh casually, "look who we dun' found in the gutter, eh lads?" Laughter.

"She hadn't done anything wrong," Vimes snarled, hands clenched. "What'd you have to do that for then?"

"She was workin' for the resistance, wasn't she, hm?" The leader raised an eyebrow. "Have correspondences between her an' that Mes-er-olé woman, don't we, lads? Yes, and Winder does reward those who are faithful." He made a show of looking through the letters.

"And I'm sure they're lovely forgeries," Vimes grit out.

The leader gave Vimes a long look, broad grin in place. "You want to make something outta this, Constable?"

"What if I do?"

He tucked the papers away in his breastplate and looked to his companions, cracking his knuckles. "He wants to make something of it, lads." He turned to Vimes and squared his shoulders. "Come at me, bro."

Later that night, Mossy Lawn looked over the lumpy and misshapen remains of Constable Vimes' face and sighed theatrically, hands on his hips. He gestured the young man in and, as soon as his bottom had hit the exam table, reached out and snapped his nose back into place, offering a towel with his other hand. "I hope they were worth it, lad; your eyes'll be swollen shut for a week."

Vimes sat there, head down, blood pouring from his nose and his mouth and gods knew where else, and spat a bit of tooth onto the floor, before smiling as much as his swollen jaw would allow. "They were."

-()-

I churn butter once or twice, living in an Amish Paradise, it's hard work and sacrifice livin' in an Amish Paradise, we sell quilts at discount price, livin' in an Amish Paradise! (theme song of my upbringing says you? Hell yes, says I.)

OH AND ALSO, GUYS, HEY. BEFORE YOU REVIEW, OR DON'T, SINCE MOST OF YOU DON'T BECAUSE YOU'RE LAZY SLUGS:

My 10-year anniversary of writing Discworld fanfiction is coming up in July. Which is a little sad but whatever, I've made my peace with my life. ANYHOW because the internet is a horrible place where dreams go to die and everything works backwards and Rule 34 exists, for my anniversary of providing you with crap, I am going to provide one special person with any fanfiction they want, providing it's Discworld. So contest! You can win if you answer some random-ass trivia about my life. First person to answer correctly wins:

What is my favorite breed of chicken? (Gogol, you are not allowed to answer this.)

Happy hunting, good luck finding that crap lol! It's available, if you know where to look and/or guess lucky. If no one wins, I'll pick the idea I like bestest and write that. Hell, I might do that if someone does win, since the winning idea might be shitty. It's like _Whose Line Is It Anyway?_, I make it up as I go and the points mean absolutely nothing.

Your ideas. PM them to me. And guess you some chicken species.


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